Street Witch

So I’ve made a couple changes to my site.  I took down the BAD BAND GOOD SONG section.  Really?  Who cares.  That was a good deal of fun for about a week.

 

I’m sorry.  I gotta go.  I just can’t stop thinking about ice cream.

 

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I Won’t Read Your Books Or Look At Your Art

Seems I owe someone an apology.  To the degenerate who broke into my car, I humbly apologize.  It seems my cane was in the mudroom the whole time.  I was wrong.

*     *     *

I think playing Borderlands 2 is starting to affect me negatively.  Every time I go to power level, I usually do it in Pyro Pete’s bar.  Every half hour during my grind I’ll hear one of the architects holler “there’s that loser bandit!”.  I’m fine with that.  I get all kinds of demented assholes calling me names and quoting Shakespeare.  Name-calling has never affected me.

The only problem now is that I am getting sick of being called a loser bandit.  Even to the point where I want to freak out when I’m called a loser bandit on the street.

This one time, I punched a guy

*     *     *

The other day my friend Jessica blithely mentioned she needed a vibrator.  It’s not unnatural for her to say something like that to me.  We’ve been friends for many years.  I asked her if there was a used vibrator store she could get an inexpensive one at.  She was mortified and disgusted by the notion.

I don’t know man.  I think I’m onto something here.  You ever hear of some of the things women do to each other?  Well I’ve heard of many nightmarish and grisly things.  I haven’t watched any of the videos and rarely will I even let someone tell me the story in great detail.  That type of thing is just not for me.

A used vibrator store though.  Hmmmmm.

*      *      *

I went to read How To Win Friends And Influence People the other day.  I’m not one to read self-help books.  I came really close to opening it but then I got to thinking.  I’m a smart guy.  I can figure this out on my own.  Then I spent the entire afternoon thinking about it while hiking with Queen Hell.  I thought of the two most effective way to make friends.

1.  Become a coke dealer.
2.  Die.

*     *     *

The garden out back is coming along ok.  I’m impressed with the transformation.  I really wish I would have taken pictures of what it looked like before we started working on it.  I use the term “we” loosely.  Queen Hell has been doing most of it.  I just do the grunt work that requires my brute force.

I am a tree.  I have green fingers.

*     *     *

When we lived in Beaverton I used to watch the fat guy across the street, Bob Soper, beat his wife, Christine, from my studio window.  Apparently Bob was an ex-cop.  So he told me.

From the first time I witnessed a beating, I trained Edie to shit on his lawn.  He caught on after a few weeks and asked me politely to stop.  I tried.  But by this point Edie wouldn’t shit anywhere BUT on his lawn.  I explained this very eloquently to Bob.  He begrudgingly told me it would be fine as long as I cleaned it up.

Well I wasn’t prepared to let him off that easy.  So three times a day I would let Edie out and she would shit on his lawn.  I would go over after with a bag and pick it up, or so I wanted him to believe.
I was actually only pretending to pick it up.  I went through the motions of picking it up.  Like I would literally bend over with the bag and pretend to pick it up but I would just leave it there.

After a week of this he had my number.  One beautiful Saturday morning I went over for a pretend poop pickup and he was standing there smoldering with his arms folded.

“I know you’re only pretending to pick it up.”  He snarled.

I blinked innocently.

“That’s ridiculous.  What kind of idiot would go through the motions of picking up a benign turd as opposed to just picking the thing up?  That’s a hell of a lot of trouble to go through just to get out of picking up dogshit.”

Bob took a step toward me pointing a finger accusingly.

“You would!  That’s who!”  He growled through clenched teeth.

I shook my head incredulously as Edie took care of her business by the Bob’s prize winning petunias.  Bob pointed a fat finger in Edie’s direction.

“Go clean it up, smartass.  I’m going to stand here and watch you.”

I shrugged my shoulders and sauntered over to the poop.  On my way over I looked toward one of his windows.  I smiled and winked.

Bob exploded.

“You just wink at my wife?!  STAY THERE!”

He ran into the house with impressive velocity considering his girth.  There were the sounds of hollering and fist beating.  While this was going on I pretended to pick up the turd.  While I was bent over I slipped an unwrapped tootsie roll into my bag.

I waited patiently for the beating to end and the guy to come back out.  After a few more minutes the guy emerged from his house.  I waved the bag with the tootsie roll in it at him.  He nodded impatiently.

“Get the fuck out of here before you get a firewheelpaindeal.”

He punched the palm of his hand for effect.  Therefore an explanation for a firewheelpaindeal wasn’t necessary.  I went back to my studio.

I did what I usually did.  I wrote some of the best music ever written by man.  About a half hour later there was an angry knock at the door.  I answered it to the angriest purple face I’ve ever seen.

“Hi.”  I said.

Bob angrily showed me the poop in his bare hand.

“What the fuck is this?”  He demanded.

I did my best to look stupefied.

“Well sir, I hope it’s a fucking tootsie roll to be in your bare hand like that!”.  I retorted.

“It’s more shit!”  He thundered.

The rage in his gravelly voice was funnier than it was scary, and it took a lot to stifle my laughter.  It wasn’t going to work.

“Ok look, Mr. Soper.  I showed you the shit after you gave Christine the ultimate wife beating.”

He threw the shit on the ground in a rage.

“There!!!  Now it’s on your fucking yard!  And if I find another piece of dog shit on my yard I’m going to weld both of your assholes shut!  I’ll be watching very closely in between wife beatings!!”

Bob stomped off before I could get another word out.  As soon as his bulk lumbered around the corner and out of sight I let it all out.  I laughed until I choked.

The next morning I headed back to Bobs.  Edie crapped on the yard.  I picked it up and left a tootsie roll in its place.

Bob exploded from the house.

“A-ha!!!”  He screamed.  “I got you now douchebag!!!”

He yanked the bag out of my hand.

“What’s this?!  More chocolate?!”

Mayor John Grant rushed over having heard the commotion from his mayoral office/insurance sales/bed and breakfast.  He glared angrily at Bob.

“Look Bob.  The people of Beaverton are sick of your woman-beating ways.  You need to stop these shenanigans at once.”

Bob reached into the poop bag.

“Fuck off, Mayor John Grant!  Here!  Have some chocolate!!!”

Bob shoved the turd into John’s face.

Then the world exploded.

 

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Standing On The Shoulders Of Morality

What in the actual FUCK?!

I admit to be hooked on Watchmojo’s top tens on Youtube.  I wouldn’t say that I am a big fan.  But I fire them up whenever I am eating.  I just finished watching Top 10 movies with the most backlash.  Nowhere on that list was The Passion Of Christ or 12 Years A Slave.  Do those assholes at Watchmojo even watch movies?

*     *     *

So my car got broken into last night.  I’m definitely back in Hamilton.  I totally forgot to lock it.  There was no sign of a forced entry.  They popped the hood but didn’t take anything.  They popped the trunk too but only would find about 100 pounds of dirt from yesterday’s plant fiasco.  More on that later.

The perpetrators were having a good rummage but were stopped short when they found a Hamilton Police patch in the console.  My best friend’s sister is a cop.  I always get cool shit from him.  I keep asking for a Glock but he just shakes his head sadly as if wondering where I went wrong.

So they got nothing.  Oh wait, that’s not true.  They got something.

They took my fucking cane.  My cane!  It’s not even sexy!  It’s one of those geriatric aluminum things.  They’re about 30 bucks new!  What in the hell is wrong with people?  So when I went for today’s walk, I had to be all spectacular and erect as possible – without a fucking cane.

Well I’ll have the last laugh.  I’m going to kick the living shit out of everyone I see with the same cane.  I don’t care how old they are.  I am meticulous.  Someone is going to pay.

 

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My Words Once Had Wings

Oh the humility.  Humility is great.  Especially when you’re dealing with me.  I find myself often wondering if I have a God complex.  I almost seem to perfect.  Relax.  I know.  It’s a ridiculous notion.  I’m just sharing my feelings.  I’m not afraid to share my feelings.  I don’t pretend to not feel because it’s sexy or some gay shit.  It’s good to feel.  It’s good to let others know how you feel.  If you bottle everything up and wear a vapid smile like you’re some kind of person of mystery, you’re not fooling me.  You’re just trying to hide.

I am self conscious about things.  My size for starters.  I know I go on about being a big fat guy.  I’m not a big fat guy.  I’m a big brawny guy who is in horrible shape.  But it’s not the outofshapedness that makes me self conscious.

It’s just that I’m huge.  I’m 6’4 and 260 pounds.  People on the street either go through great pains to avoid me, or lock eyes just to let me know that I intimidate the fuck out of them but they can’t ever let that weakness show.  People are either afraid of me or they’re trying to fuck with me.

I’m not as tough as I look.  I’m sensitive.  I love the sound of wind chimes and children’s laughter.  I love pretty music and beautiful architecture.  I cry easily.  I enjoy crying.  I love it when good things happen to good people.  It breaks my heart to see a living creature hurt or dying.  I’ll go through walls to help improve the quality of life of a loved one.  I loathe bullies, and I would die to save the life of a stranger.  Hopefully one day I get the chance to prove that.

I’m working on my health right now.  It’s started with walking.  A lot.  I’m more active.  I’m gardening.  I have a beautiful new home I want to get in shape.  I take Edie out as often as possible.  I’m getting back into the gym.

I’m in rough shape.  Mentally I’m at an all-time high.  I do have problems with stress.  I can’t pinpoint the source but I have my suspicions.  The worst part is this stupid noise I make, and it makes me very self conscious.  It’s the combination of a gasp and a groan that somehow comes out sounding like a retard’s mating call.  I HATE it when I do it.  Because when I do, whoever I am with at the time will comment without fail.  I mean who the fuck wouldn’t?!

I feel as though I am being stalked by a monster.  But I am not afraid.  I just want it to rear its ugly head so I can fuck it up.  I’m not afraid of anyone.  I’m not afraid of anything.  This isn’t machismo.  This isn’t demented arrogance.  I just know my power and limitations.  I know that if there is something that I should fear, it’s not out to hurt me.  And I know that if it’s nothing to fear…  well then, I don’t fear it.

I haven’t hit it out here in a few days.  I’m not sorry.  Sometimes there is just nothing to say.  Either that, or some things are better left unsaid.  But we all know that’s bullshit.

The things better left unsaid are the best things to say.

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The Warriors Of Joan Of Arc

Hi friends.  This blog is for satirical value.  It’s not a cry for help.   It’s satire.  It’s poetry.  It’s beautiful.  Some of the things I say are true, some are bullshit.  This isn’t social engineering on my part or mass manipulation.  I just love to write.  I love to entertain.

I took down my last blog.  I was inundated by advice from people on how to deal with my situation.  I’m not looking for help.  I’m just making fun of a situation.  This is not to say I don’t genuinely appreciate the offers of help.

From now on I am going to be careful on how I present my life out here.  It used to be fun.  But now all it’s doing is providing hall passes to people who thing they’re welcome in my world.  There is an astronomical difference between Doug Hill and Doug Hell.  I realize that line may become blurred at times but they are two distinctly different people.

Thank you all for your diligence.  As per usual, this is not slanted toward any one person in general.

Thanks for tuning in kids.

Love hard.

DH

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We’ve All Gone Crazy Lately

Associations.  Negative associations are horrible.  I got one today and I almost choked on it.  This afternoon I was cleaning out my backyard.  I dragged a couple hundred pounds of scrap metal out to the front.  Even though I knew it would only be a matter of time before some joker with poor hygiene in a shitty pick-up truck snagged it, I wasn’t comfortable leaving it for some old bead to break their dentures on.   I live in a neighbourhood full of old folks and the last thing I need is a death on my conscience.  Either that or a bill for an electrical wheelchair repair.  I’ve only been here for a week, but I would like to maintain a good rapport with these lovable and goofy geriatrics.

Negative associations.  I remembered an old friend of mine who lived in the shitty Strathbarton area of Hamilton who collected scrap metal.  It was a good residual income for him.  It helped pay for a trailer he liked to vacation in.  He was a decent guy.  I would offer the metal to him.

I drove to his neighbourhood.  The second I arrived I felt sick to my stomach.  Someone I used to hang out with lives in the same neighbourhood. A guy named Badge.  I knew Badge since I was thirteen.  He used to hang out with my older brother.  Badge likes to tell groups of people in front of me that he used to beat me up, but he didn’t.  He was just talking shit.  But that was all Badge was good for.  Talking shit.

I didn’t want to be seen by Badge near his house.  It would have just been an ugly scene.  He would have either engaged me in an attempt to rekindle a laughable friendship or he would have talked shit.  Talking shit to someone who knows where you live is never smart.

Thankfully, Badge was nowhere to be seen.  I pulled up in front of the sheet metal guy’s house.  He was already standing in the driveway drinking beer with friends.  Jesus.  It was a depressing site.  Here I am pulling up in a shiny modern car on this rathole street.

I got out of the car.  The beer drinkers stared at me like they never saw a person with a life up close.  It irritated me so I told them to take a picture, it would last longer.  As I walked toward the house I suddenly found myself wanting to turn and hobble back to my car top-speed.  But I had already committed to engaging the friend.  I told him faster than I probably should have that I had some scrap metal for him.  I honestly can’t remember what his response was.  I just wanted to get the fuck out of there.  He asked me why I was walking with a cane.  I told him about my back being fuckered ever since I passed a stone last year.

Then we left the neighbourhood faster than you could spit.  I will NEVER go back to that neighbourhood again.  FUCK that neighbourhood.  The only reason I went back the last few times was to see a dog I gave to Badge’s ex-wife, Shannon.  I have since learned Shannon got wise and left Badge.  Thank fucking Christ for that.  At least now her son, Austin, MIGHT have a chance.  The poor kid is already fucked up as it is.  Badge hated him and treated him so.  Last couple of times I saw Austin he looked like a bitter ugly chick.  I can’t blame him.  I know what it feels like to have a step-father who hated me.

Badge better tiptoe.  There is a reason my stepdad lives ten million miles away from me.  He’s a coward.  Badge is one of the biggest cowards I’ve ever met in my life.  His big mouth got me in a lot of hot water with good people because he used to be my drummer.  Regardless, Austin is going to be bigger than Badge.  That’s a fact.  And there will definitely be a reckoning.

It’s all really shitty.  I hate people who fuck their kids up.  It breaks my heart.

Anyway this is all the shit that I thought about when I pulled up on Badge’s street.  Among other things.

I could write a book about that fucking douche.  But I just don’t have that kind of time.

This gets better.

I went to a flea market, because well, flea markets fucking rule!  We ended up finding as nice table for the kitchen.  We bought it from an old guy that was my size.  He also walked with a cane.  He was the same shape.  He told us he had a heart attack the week previous and he had to be carried out of there.

It got me to thinking about a mere few days ago.  While experiencing a great detail of stress, my right hand was suddenly struck with a dull numbing pain.  The pain shot up my arm and then directly into my chest.  I went down.  I couldn’t talk.  I couldn’t do anything but lay there silently.

I was ok after about a half hour but I’ve felt winded ever since.

I’m in fucking horrible shape.  And I’ll tell you I look fucking ridiculous.  Especially today.  Going out in sweat pants and a big baggy green shirt looking like the Incredible Bulk.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that guy as I carried the small table out to the car.

 

Not too long before the jowls make an appearance. This pic makes me hungry. TIME TO EAT!

Love is important.  Try it sometime, you angry fucking cunts.

Love hard.

DH

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The Siren Song Proves Hard To Resist

The guns of God have fired to no avail.  The bullets scream overhead and the Christians sing along.

I am by no means racist towards Christians.  But they’re stupid.  They’re stupid to believe in something so ridiculous.  You Christians go right ahead and believe in your fucking afterlife, but you’re stupid.  Stupid stupid stupid.

But….  Christians for the most part aren’t hurting anyone, with the exceptions of those dirty filthy priests who like to fuck small boys.  Christians are generally good people.  Besides, priests aren’t the only ones who like to fuck small boys.  Those people are everywhere.  Teachers, hockey coaches, policemen…

*     *     *

I was committed to a long term mental facility called B’nai B’rith Cottage when I was 15.  Maybe I was 14.   When you’re a tad fucked in the head, what difference does it make?  Back then I couldn’t understand why I was there.  My darkness never said goodbye to me.  It lives on, and it thrives.

But looking back, it should have been my life that ended.  I should have known better.  Words I wished for should have been taken back, and now I live with my mistakes.  I am poor.  I am destitute, and I will continue to be until I die.  This doesn’t get better.  Whenever I set upon the right path I’m derailed by my own sick self.

*     *     *

I know you’re watching me.

*     *      *

You’ve taken over my world.  I can’t be happy unless you’re happy.  I’ve betrayed all my good judgement to hold your hand.

*     *     *

Floating like a ghostman.  I understand now.  I never understood before.  But I do now.  I’ve been fighting all the wrong enemies.  I’ve been catering to the wrong friends.

*     *     *

Flowers for the rapture.

*     *     *

The winter is on fire.  Spring is here to stake its claim, but the winter will not go quietly.  We march forward, daring the sky to fall.  We hold each other close.  All track of time has been lost.  Neither of us have been here before.

The sun has turned black.  We have arrived,  But now we don’t know if we’re coming and going.  Who the fuck really knows?

*      *      *

When I was 30 I was diagnosed with schizo-effective disorder.  That’s bullfuckingshit.  I’m tired of all this shit.  Fuck the shrinks.  Fuck the therapists (the rapists?!).  It’s my right to decide what the lights in the sky are.  Just because I see and hear things that YOU don’t, it doesn’t mean I am crazy.  It means I am fortunate.  It means there are things only I have the right to see and hear.  Fuck you for telling me I am crazy.

Funny how every time there is a “crazy” person preaching on the street.  Everything he said before he was dragged away by cops made perfect fucking sense.  Some of the greatest minds I’ve ever come across have been in the puzzle factory.

If I am suffering from grief and I need help dealing with it, I will talk to another person who has overcome grief.  Not a fucking stupid fucking shitsucking fucking therapist who gets paid handsomely to listen to people’s problems.

I stopped going to my psychiatrist the day I found out that he believed in God.  If I want to talk about the horrors of war, I’ll talk to a veteran, not watch a movie.

*     *     *

Keep yourself alive.

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Fanged Apathy

I was too mortified to blog yesterday.  As I was frolicking behind the blissful wall of sleep, I heard a crack.  That crack was followed by varying degrees of cracks.  And each time there was a crack, the mattress sunk a little more.  Needless to say, I was wide awake at this point and thoroughly dejected.  With a final crack and a whomp, my side of the bed rested on the floor.

Well it was about all the motivation I needed to get to the gym.  I went into my kitchen and helped myself to some apples and grapes that were leftovers from the previous night’s snack.

I managed to walk to the gym without my cane.  That was a feat.  I am positive my walk was hilarious.  Imagine the site of a 6’4 mastodon lumbering down the street with a fat determined face carry a cute little tupperware container.

I got to the gym and hit it.  But before I hit it I did something I wasn’t looking forward to.  I weighed myself.  My face fell.  At least I am sure it did.  260.  I weighed more than the average professional wrestler.  Hell, I was the size of the average professional wrestler.  Only I didn’t have the fitness or kikyoface skills they have.  I was just a clambering bulk trying to make the world a better place by minimizing my involvement and staying out of the way.  Only now I was IN everyone’s way.

Then came the workout.  I have a workout that works for me.  Everyone is different.  A few years ago I had a really good trainer.  On day one I do back and biceps.  On day two I do chest and triceps.  On day three I do legs and shoulders.  I take a day off, and I repeat.  That is my workout.  I know you idiots are just dying to email me or I’m going to hear from my comment moderator about how I’m doing it all wrong or whatnot.  Save it.  Everyone’s physiology is different.

I do know what not to do.  When I was a kid I spent a fair amount of time in the slammer.  All everyone in there did was bench presses for some reason.  It was all about the bench presses.  I followed suit.   I thought I would do bench presses every day and get out and be huge!  Well that kinda worked.  Only when I got out my chest and triceps were huge.  I still carry this freakish shape today!

So today is chest and triceps.  I did a good job yesterday.  I didn’t pull anything.  Everything is a comfortable dull, but intense, ache today.

But I’m not going ANYWHERE until the Bell freak shows up.  Somehow we managed to miss him when we were moving in.  I don’t know how.  The front door was wide open.  The back door was wide open.

Come on internet!  This tethering from my phone is nothing short of a spectacular hellride.

Love hard.

DH

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Tuesday Night Hate Crimes

I get my internet hooked up officially tomorrow.  I am tethering from my phone.  It’s laughable.

Right now it’s all about the crackers and cheese.  I’m sitting here pining for crackers and cheese.  A few days ago I was swearing vengeance on my apathy, but I’m off to a rocky start.  The first few days of my diet have been uninspiring.   I’ve been so tired from the move, not to mention hauling my clambering bulk all over the city running errands.  So I’ve been cheating a little.  Not to mention I live extremely close to a fantastic bakery that makes very delicious and inexpensive food…

I’m pathetic.  I know this.  But I will bounce back.  I better.  I’m a gluttonous mouth away from bouncing period.  But I’ve got this.  I haven’t just been sitting around playing video games.  I’ve been going out like crazy and running around town like an asshole getting things done.

This place is over a hundred years old.  I love it too.  I can feel the history in this place.  It pleases me.

I hate to say this but I think my musical career is winding down.  I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished.  I’ve exceeded my expectations.  I did everything on my own terms and never compromised my principles.  I’ll keep writing and singing but I’m not loving performing live as much as I used to.

I hate bars.  I hate playing in them.   Perhaps if I could just play coffee and art houses.  I’m not being an elitist.  I don’t think I am better than anyone.  It’s just really worn thin on me.  I’ve been giving some serious thought to becoming a youth mentor, or an addictions counselor.  This seems a little ironic considering I showed up at a bar earlier today to train as a bartender.  But that is when it hit me like a ton of bricks.  I don’t want to be around bars anymore.  I loathe night life culture.  This isn’t a judgement.  Just a preference.

As far as my new choice in a career goes, I need to do something that is going to fulfill me, as well as feed me.  I need to do something in which I am going to be able to live with myself.  I can’t go do some pointless high paying job that serves no purpose other than making someone money somewhere.  What is the point of that?  I want to help people and be able to sustain myself monetarily while doing it.

Just so you know, I actually did register for the gym today.  I start tomorrow and I am giddy just thinking about it.  A friend of mine suggested to me that before I start the fascist illogical diet and brutal training regiment, I need to change my lifestyle.  It was a good suggestion.  I’m going to do this slowly and surely and make gradual progress as opposed to piping off out here about being Jim Jupiter.

Long day and I am tired.  I’m going to unwind with my crackers and cheese and keep it mad real.

Love hard people.

DH

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Edge Of Recompense

Jason Ramone and I had become pretty good friends over the years.  Due to a lack of propinquity, there is an excellent chance I am being a little melodramatic.  He lives in Ottawa.  I met him in Ottawa.  I was a fan of his band.   I live in Toronto.  So it’s hard to say we were uber-tight.  I’m not saying people can’t be friends from a distance, but whatever.  Gotta keep on point here.  I am lord of the tangent.

About 10 years ago Jason and I had a falling out, and it really couldn’t have been over anything more stupid.  Without going into details, it was just one of those things.  I felt that Jason was being out of line.  I pointed that out to him and he responded to me in kind.  Only Jason had a much better example of me being out of line than I did of him.

I was furious.  In true Doug style I parked myself in front of my keyboard and went to work.  I brought my guns to town.

Well naturally I destroyed him.  Words are my bullets and I have an arsenal.  I have moves.  I’m lord of the fucking dance.  The war of words had been declared and I bitch-slapped his pathetic verbal salvo into oblivion.  When the smoke had cleared, Jason was left demoralized, humiliated, and speechless.  I on the other hand, was pleased by my conquest.

A couple months ago I saw Jason on Facebook.  He had me blocked on one of my many old accounts but hadn’t had a chance to unblock me on my newest one.  The battle between us had long been over, and to be honest when we fought, it wasn’t really something that was worth fighting about.

I sent Jason a message apologizing for the verbal beatdown I gave him years ago.  I told him it was in the past and hoped we could at least be cordial again.

He ignored me.  He had seen the message but chose to ignore me.

I sent him another message.  I was as cordial as I could muster.  I explained my behaviour was irresponsible, petulant, and very kneejerk.  It shouldn’t have been taken personally and that life is too short to have animosity toward ANYONE.

He blocked me.

I was dumbstruck.  I had humbled myself to the ninth degree to sincerely apologize to this guy and he just straight up severed me from his life.  This guy was responsible for bringing Radar Hate out to Ottawa at least once a year for some extremely memorable shows.  He always paid us well too, and promoted diligently.  The shows were always very well attended.  I reciprocated by having him to Oshawa as often as possible.

Fact of the matter though, was I said some shitty things to him.  I attacked every aspect of him.  I attacked his taste in women.  I even made specific examples of ex-girlfriends of his.  Those girls had never done me wrong and I never had anything personal against them.  I just wanted to hurt him.  I wanted to hurt him because he called me on my bullshit.  He hurt me legitimately by making good points about my nefarious behaviour.  I in turn maliciously beat him up.   I attacked his dental hygiene.  I attacked his art.

Jason Ramone is legitimately a good person.  I ran him through the fucking dirt because he called me on being an asshole and he was right.  Jason is an activist and genuinely cares about making the world a better place.  He and I could have worked as a team and accomplished great things, but because of my big mouth and suckholishness I aced myself out of having a good friend.

It taught me a valuable lesson too.  I can’t just go running my fucking mouth and expect to be forgiven just because a little time has gone by.  Some people have longer memories than others.  Either way that doesn’t matter.  Good work could have been done had I not acted like a fucking douchebag.  I have no animosity toward Jason for cutting me out of his life.  I do know I will never make that mistake again though.

I’ve done and said a lot of shitty things over the years.  I can safely say that right up until I turned 40 I was quite the cunt.  I’m not saying that I didn’t have moments of greatness.  I’m not saying I haven’t been a good friend and inspiration.  But the fact of the matter is I am irritable, high-strung, and I have a despicable temper.

I have no right to abuse people who don’t agree with me.

I was at my mom’s house the other day.  She told me about a really special song she loved that made her feel good.  She was hoping it would have the same effect on me.

It didn’t.  It was a cover of the country classic, Country Roads, originally by John Denver.  But in this version it was a bunch of modern pop-country artists singing it.

Not only did I hate it, but it pissed me the fuck off.  I hate modern country music.  Every once in a while I’ll catch me liking an obscure Garth Brooks song or some other gay shit, but for the most part I just fucking hate it.

Needless to say I berated my mom for having such shitty taste in music.  What I half expected her to show me was that simulcast of artists all over the world performing Stand By Me.  Now THAT I found riveting.  It gave me the feels in all the right places.

Then I got to thinking, who in the fuck was I to devalue something that made someone else happy?  What?  Because something wasn’t my thing I should ridicule it?

Wow.  I really have to catch myself sometimes.  If someone loves NIckelback, let them love Nickelback.  What lordly right do I have to knock it?

This personal growth is a dangercunt I tell ya.  I genuinely feel bad about wrecking my friendship with Jason.  I genuinely feel bad about shitting all over something that my mom loved.

Bear with me world.  I’ll get there.  Or I’ll die trying.

This was Radar Hate’s most memorable show at The Agora in Ottawa. Here I am leaning on a 19 year old Franky Gogo.

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